Tag Archives: reality television

Last week, Guardian columnist Sam Wollaston (Charlie Brooker’s polite younger brother) described The X Factor as a ‘talent abattoir’. Brilliant. Give that man a Giant Orange Smartie. The more you think about it, the more it makes beautiful, almost poetic sense.

Presuming the ‘talent’ doesn’t contract salmonella at the first hurdles, their deluded little ankles are tagged for round two of the televised slaughterhouse. Farmer Cowell is in charge of the machinery of course, sat alone behind his “I’m going to be honest with you” splatter-proof booth.

By this reckoning, the Grand Prize is an individual meat display in supermarkets across the country. Candidates also get an honourable mention in Jamie Oliver’s next cookery program with the prime minister’s approval. And if THAT wasn’t enough, the winner is cooked in a pie live on The One Show and eaten by John Prescott.

Missing presumed dead. (Or working at a Pontin’s near you!)

But they never ever get to the John Prescott stage of my confusing analogy because within a year of winningTHEY ALWAYS DISAPPEAR FROM THE FACE OF THE EARTH!You don’t want your ‘dream’ that badly then, Leon Whatshisface? It was only the most important thing to you in the whole world, Michelle Whojimaboobs. Now, if my ‘dream’ presented itself and I had won ‘Stand-up factor’ beating thousands of funnier, more confident applicants to the cut, I wouldn’t sit on my arse and wait for Butlins to offer me a gig.

Can we at least have a determined idiot apply, please? An idiot prepared to go the distance with their idiocy and silence all other idiots in the quest for idiotic idiocy. I’m not going to buy your song on iTunes but stick to your guns and I might just respect you, for christ sake. (Alternatively, turn them on yourselves).

Unfortunately, sadly, diabolically, the contestants that ARE determined to stick around in the public eye no matter what are the ones that make me want to throw up my intestinal tract and hang myself with it just so I have something else to occupy myself with. (Look up Emetophobia (which is what I have) and you’ll realise just how much I must hate them).

Jedward, the nation’s hatred of you goes right over your heads, doesn’t it?

In Abattoir terms, these cocky, insufferable sods are the packet of rotten, gone-off meat that Tesco try unashamedly to sell to inbreds on the ‘REDUCED’ table along with partially crushed biscuits and a loaf of just-about-alright-but-if-you-don’t-consume-it-today-you’ll-die Bread. In other words, only the most desperate, starving fuckwit would give Jedward the time of day. And now, the starving fuckwits at ITV have recently shelled out millions to give this two-headed abomination its own TV show.

Why don’t the good people get coverage? Last year’s winner Joe McElderry was ordinary but likeable. And he was a Geordie! Give Joe his own TV show so ITV can beam ‘I’m Northern and I’ve won it, like, so youz can sit there and tek it’ into the homes of uninformed southern bastards! (Sorry. Another rant for another time…)

Searching for another Leona is only insulting the mentally ill, Simon, so don’t bother.

And then there’s Leona Lewis. A beautiful lamb that escaped the Abattoir of reality television in favour of focusing on the task at hand: songwriting. She may be in and out of the limelight but with each new album release, we are reminded of that rare outcome in reality television in all it’s genres:MODEST, HUMBLE, NO–QUESTIONS-ASKED, NOTHING-IN-RETURN, UNMISTAKABLE TALENT. I can only think of one other artist that fits that description and it took 16 years and a stop-motion video of dancing chickens for him to reach the audience Chico, Jedward and JLS acquired overnight. His name? Let’s just leave him beautifully un-mainstream..…………..>>>>

Here be a TV review I did for uni, which in truth is more of a rant. But an appreciative rant admiring a rare gem in reality programming. Sorry, that’s the only gem in reality programming.

They say ‘write what you love’ but it’s amazing how well that applies to something you hate an’ all. Comic writer and columnist Charlie Brooker is the king of this and I plan to use this blog-o-sphere as a platform for my own collection (however shit) of Brooker-esque ramblings. For now, I present a positive review of why telly has it right for once…

Why ‘Snog, Marry, Avoid?’ is BBC Three’s finest import

The ‘make-under’ show hosted by Jenny Frost has recently wrapped up its third series and I’m already suffering withdrawal symptoms. Until a fourth series graces our screens, allow me to wax lyrical about the niftiest show in telly land.

Cast your minds back to 2008 and it wasn’t a particularly thrilling year. An oblivious Rick Astley made a YouTube comeback and Stephen Fry’s Twitter obsession got on the nation’s nerves.

Fortunately, help was at hand and June brought light at the end of media’s abysmal tunnel in the form of BBC Three’s lifestyle program ‘Snog, marry, avoid?’ – The most socially relevant piece of broadcasting since Spitting Image in my humble opinion.

The premise was enough to make the hard cynic I am cry tears of absolute joy: Take a fake-tan obsessed slap-addict and educate them in the ways of natural beauty. Saints be praised.

I for one had grown weary of incessant makeover shows with a confidence complex. (Yes, Gok Wan, I am talking to you). It was only a matter of time before someone pitched the world’s first ‘make-under’ show. And what a winning format it is.

POD isn’t so forgiving when it comes to fakery and her glorious put-downs make for endlessly addictive viewing. (“There is nothing sexy about a bit of Baco Foil teamed with a pair of pink knickers”) ranks in my top five.

My personal highlight of the show has to be the subsequent section entitled ‘Public Analysis’ in which our fake participants get an almighty wake-up call thanks to a brief vox-pop, asking male members of the public whether they would Snog, marry or avoid these disastrous creatures.

To my delight, the answers given are almost always the latter. Some are rightly deterred by this revelation while others take it as a compliment. Dear, oh dear. More drastic measures are needed and sure enough, POD supplies this in spades.

Hopelessly confused by the ‘less is more’ rule (in this case, wearing less in order to get more attention), POD offers each tan-tastic girl (and the odd boy) a chance to emulate their style icon, picking a more sophisticated hairstyle and dress-sense according to their eye colour and skin tone. (Yes, it’s even educational!)

The transformations are nothing short of astounding. It’s hard to fathom that a naturally beautiful, fresh-faced girl was hiding under Lily Savage’s wardrobe.

On top of the ghastly hair extensions, fake nails and spider eyelashes, these girls waltz into POD sporting four to five layers of slap: Bronzer, blusher, foundation…It’s enough to make David Dickinson’s perma-tanned skin crawl.

Yet, before you can say Jodie Marsh, a sophisticated woman emerges. The person is then re-introduced to their boyfriend or mother outside the studio and the reactions towards the new, natural look is the very epitome of feel-good TV. Heart-warming, moving even but always positive.

Before POD casts her computerised lens on these insecure girls, their original look is leading the public to believe that 19-year-old make-up obsessed girls are nearer to 35 years of age. Surely, this is the best lifestyle program, like, ever?

In this grisly age of celebrity, Snog, Marry Avoid has relevance like no other. Could it be too far-fetched to suggest that this become a compulsory ritual in schools and universities around the country? A ‘POD booth’ on every street corner? You heard it here first, Duncan Bannatyne.

Spread the word, mothers, mad aunties and Katie Price-wannabes, natural beauty is the way forward and may the battle against fakery continue long into the decade. Snog, Marry, Avoid?, you had me at ‘POD off’.